


Waiting for the End of the World

by nwhepcat



Series: Riders on the Storm [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-05
Updated: 2009-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-04 04:29:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwhepcat/pseuds/nwhepcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The classic stakeout story, except with an angel and a slayer and an apocalypse.</p><p>Crossover between Supernatural and Buffy, featuring Castiel and Faith. Spoilers for all of BtVS, through SPN 4.10 "Heaven and Hell"</p><p>Disclaimer: Not mine, either show. Written for fun, not profit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting for the End of the World

Faith settles herself on the picnic table top, warming her hands with a cup of bad vending machine coffee. The Wyoming wind is raw and the piles of grey clouds threaten snow, though most of what's already fallen this season has been scoured away, revealing the brown hills.

 

 

Despite her dreams, it's dead quiet here. No cars pull in for a cup of the bad joe or a chance to unload the last bad cup. There aren't even enough cars on the highway to make that distinctive whine.

 

 

Who the hell would put an apocalypse-grade seal at a rest stop in Wyoming? She supposes the real question is who the hell would build a rest stop on one of these seals. Six hundred of 'em, Castiel said. This is the one her dreams led her to, and Dean and Sammy are checking out another, and she supposes there are angels out there scoping out others. But six hundred is a helluva lot of ground to cover.

 

 

It doesn't take long for the coffee to cool down; Faith takes another sip and then chucks the half-full cup into the trash bin. She hates waiting. Hates thinking about the last time she was in on one of these seal deals. She shoves her hands in her armpits. "Don't fuck this up," she whispers.

 

 

After another twenty minutes of this pointless vigil, Faith digs out a coffin nail and her lighter. She cups her hands over the wavering flame, and when she looks up, Castiel is just standing there in front of the picnic table.

 

 

"Jesus!" she blurts, then mutters, "Sorry. You scare the hell out of me when you do that."

 

 

"Then it serves some useful purpose," he says in that totally deadpan way of his. Dean might refer to him as a humorless bastard, but he's wrong. Castiel's got a sense of humor, it's just so lowkey it's subterranean.

 

 

As always, he looks like some regular joe on the way to the train after a long day at the office. Tie loosened and a little crooked, stubble just beginning to darken his cheeks. Faith's never been one for guys in suits, but she can't help noticing the form he chose is, well, kind of hot.

 

 

Better get off _that_ train of thought. Entertaining carnal thoughts about angels is so wrong that Monsignor Strynkowski never even _mentioned_ it in his catalog of sins that would land you right in hell. It just went without saying. "So what's the story? Think these mopes are gonna show and make a play for the seal?"

 

 

"You know the outcome as well as I do."

 

 

"If that's the case, the human race is hosed. You mean your team doesn't have a cosmic hotline to what's gonna happen?"

 

 

"We have a number of sources. One of them is slayer dreams."

 

 

"Don't you find them a little goddamn cryptic? Sorry," she adds, for the _goddamn_. "Because I do." She'd never gotten the hang of them the way B. did. Maybe it depends on your watcher.

 

 

He doesn't answer this time, but joins her on her perch on the table top. The raw wind knifes right through her, but as far as she can tell, Castiel doesn't notice. Maybe human things don't affect him. Maybe her internal thermostat got fucked all to hell when she had that fever, after he brought her back.

 

 

"You don't feel this? The cold?"

 

 

"I'm aware of it, but it causes me no discomfort. You should dress more warmly."

 

 

Faith snorts. "Thanks, Ma. Wanna tell me not to smoke while you're at it?"

 

 

He regards her. "You're not complaining about the effects of smoking."

 

 

Faith can't suppress a grin. What a weird life she's stumbled into. Perched on a picnic table in the middle of nowhere with an angel by her side. "So what's the story with this body? Is it a cosmic smokescreen; do I just _think_ I'm seeing it? Or is it real?"

 

 

"You felt its solidity while I was tending your injuries. It's as real as yours."

 

 

"Human?"

 

 

"Yes."

 

 

"What's that like? Going from the body you usually have -- or is it just spirit -- to the one you're wearing now?"

 

 

Faith's not sure if the pause that follows is because Castiel's trying to formulate an answer, or trying to decide how much to tell her.

 

 

"It was a shock, at first. To be confined to such a small vessel."

 

 

"Like ten pounds of ... angel in a five pound sack."

 

 

He chews that over in his earnest way, then nods. "An apt analogy. It feels as though some of my senses are muffled. Others are new to me."

 

 

"So what's your favorite food so far?"

 

 

"My essence provides all the nourishment this body needs."

 

 

"Yeah, but you're here. You should take some time to stop and smell the onion rings."

 

 

Glowering, Castiel snaps, "These are distractions. We are at war."

 

 

She flicks her cigarette butt onto the walkway, watching the arc of red ember. "You don't have to tell me," she says mildly. "I'm the one who got her heart cut out."

 

 

Though he says nothing and doesn't make a move, Faith can feel him softening next to her, his ruffled feathers settling. The phrase triggers a mental image that makes her laugh.

 

 

"What?" he says, and she recognizes the same tone of voice she used on him when she was still feverish, nearly dead.

 

 

"Nothing. Do you miss your wings? Do you _have_ wings?"

 

 

"Yes," he answers, and she takes it as the response to both questions.

 

 

Reaching into an outer pocket of her jacket, Faith finds the packet of peanut M&amp;Ms she bought from one of the machines inside, tears off the corner and pours a few into her palm. "So this seal," she says, and pops one into her mouth. "Do we know what opens it, or could they be trying anything?"

 

 

"This one requires a specific rite, as well as the blood of a virgin."

 

 

Faith snorts. "Well, I'm safe." She's not asking Castiel; he bit her head off when she suggested he might want to try a cheeseburger. "Guess this is what's taking 'em so long."

 

 

The immense pile of iron-grey clouds finally lets fly with some snow, barely enough to be described as flurries. It's more like one of them has sprung a pinhole leak.

 

 

"Why'd you bring me back?"

 

 

"It was commanded."

 

 

Someone farther up the ladder took an interest in her? The thought is unsettling. "You obey every single command?"

 

 

He looks at her like she's just offered him the crack pipe she must be smoking. "That's the nature of what I am, Faith."

 

 

"What about free will?"

 

 

"That's a gift that was given to your kind, not mine."

 

 

"That's harsh."

 

 

"No, it just is."

 

 

"What if you wanted something different? Are you telling me that's impossible, or that you coudn't do anything about it? What if you met a nice girl -- or nice guy, whichever blows your robes up -- while you're down here. You couldn't decide to go native, settle down in some nice Ikea-feathered nest?"

 

 

"You ask a great many useless questions."

 

 

"So the nuns used to tell me. Hit me with a ruler, if it makes you happy."

 

 

Castiel looks at her, his brow as rumpled as his clothes. "I would not strike you," he says softly. After a moment, he says, "What you talk about would require ripping away all connection to the Lord. Some do accomplish this. They instigate rebellion, try to usurp the Throne. This is what Lucifer did, what others have done beside him, or after him. Their brothers now must hunt them down, kill them when they can." He gazes out into the distance for a long while, watching the cars threaded along the highway. Faith could swear he looks troubled. "There is another, more personal form of rebellion. Angels ... we can tear out our -- the only way I can describe this in language is to call it our grace. It's much the same as you stopping your own heart, but as if you had also been the one to tear it from your chest. Once it's ripped free, we fall to earth and are born as humans. All that we were is veiled, forgotten."

 

 

Faith studies him. "This bothers you more than the big rumble of the angels."

 

 

He turns back to her, seemingly surprised that she's noticed. "Yes. I have known someone who did this. Someone I knew -- or thought I knew. Not just my comrade, but my superior."

 

 

"This isn't -- we're not _all_ renegade angels, are we?"

 

 

"No. The human race was a separate creation of the Lord." Castiel twitches what might be a smile. "Didn't Monsignor Strynkowski teach you that?"

 

 

She nearly chokes on an M&amp;M. Does he know _everything_ about her?

 

 

"You talked a lot during your fever," he says.

 

_Not_ reassuring.

 

 

"Angels who fall to earth and live as humans are rare."

 

 

A thought strikes her. "Is it me? I mean, I'm not --" That would explain why Castiel found her and brought her back to life, why someone up there is apparently interested in her. An ache blossoms in her chest. She's come to terms with how far she fell before she straightened out her life, but if she'd actually started out as an angel, it's so much worse.

 

 

"No, Faith," he says softly. "You're human. A slayer, but human."

 

 

A weird mixture of relief and disappointment blows through her.

 

 

His chin jerks upward. "They're here."

 

 

"I guess they found their -- those fucking sons of whores!"

 

 

It's a _girl_ they have with them, not more than eleven years old. Snatching up her weapon, Faith takes a flying leap off the picnic table.

 

 

Castiel is already there fighting by the time she gets to them. The battle is fast but not clean. She pours on a little extra fierce, taking some vengeance for her own ritual murder.

 

 

"Where's the kid?"

 

 

Castiel points her out, sitting on a picnic bench, gazing dreamily at the sky. "She's been drugged," he says. Going to her, he gently touches two fingers to her forehead. "She'll remember none of this, except as a dream."

 

 

"What about the seal? How do we know they won't try this again?"

 

 

"The seal has been corrupted by demon blood. It can no longer be opened."

 

 

"Bitchin'. Only five hundred some to go." She looks down at herself. "Let me clean this off, then we can figure out what to do with her."

 

 

Castiel, despite doing a fair percentage of the smiting, looks no more or less rumpled than he did an hour ago.

 

 

She scrubs the demon blood away the best she can, then contorts under the hot air dryer for a moment. Pausing at the candy machine, she buys a couple of packs of M&amp;Ms for the girl. She's not good with kids, but maybe that'll help.

 

 

When she gets outside, the cold wind finds the wet spots on her clothes and makes her shiver. It's snowing harder now. Castiel stands at the edge of the parking lot, gazing up at the sky, but the girl is nowhere in sight.

 

 

"Where'd she go?"

 

 

"She's home," he says.

 

 

"Oh. I bought her some chocolate." Stupidly, she holds up the bag of M&amp;Ms.

 

 

"I've never tasted chocolate," he says, and she thinks _Yeah, I kinda got that message_, then she realizes what he's really saying.

 

 

"Would you like some?"

 

 

He cups his palm as he'd seen her do, and she pours some candies into it.

 

 

"I got the non peanut kind, since so many kids are allergic to peanuts."

 

 

He takes a blue one between his thumb and finger, studying the M for a second, then he takes it into his mouth.

 

 


End file.
